


A Human Life

by nellie_faye



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Flashback, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellie_faye/pseuds/nellie_faye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being beaten senseless by Seth and his vampire cronies, George is taken by his saviour, the mysterious stranger named Mitchell, to a nearby diner to get cleaned up. While escaping from the cold and the monsters which roam outside, George learns more about the man who protected him, and even begins to forge a bond of trust with the man who might not be so dissimilar from himself. </p><p>Written as a continuance from the flashback scene where George and Mitchell meet for the first time, behind the cafe where George works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Human Life

The diner was empty, more or less; the only people remaining being the solitary stragglers who had sought refuge from the night and the rain. In the corner, tucked away in the furthest booth, sat an old man – homeless, by the state of his clothes, nursing his cold hands around his mug of black coffee and sighing contentedly, as if he had never felt such warmth before. The next man, a truck driver, sat at the counter, his tired eyes staring vacantly forwards as he listened to the hum of the radio, occasionally grunting with acknowledgement as the waitress silently refilled his mug. The clattering of crockery could be heard from the kitchen to the left, but aside from that and the crackling drone of the radio, the diner was miserably quiet. 

“So what’s your name?” 

Inhaling a lungful of the foul-smelling steam which rose from my cup of thick, oily coffee, I closed my eyes and remained silent. I had been quite content to forget about the presence of the stranger; in fact, I’d have quite liked to forget about him altogether, along with everything else which had happened that night. All I wanted was to drink my coffee, walk out of that door and go... but no. I had said too much already – _been_ too much – and the strange man who sat across from me now was never going to allow me to leave. 

“George,” I muttered quietly, but I kept my eyes averted. I wanted to remain anonymous, as nameless as the homeless man or the tired truck driver sitting at the counter, and for a long time I had debated over using an alias. But the man knew enough about me already; what was the significance of a name, when put into perspective? I could have given any name, and no matter how far I ran, he would still be able to track me down. 

“Listen George,” he began, laying his hands down on the table and leaning in towards me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

For a moment, I almost looked up at him, but still refusing to meet his eyes, I focused instead on his hands. The gloves he wore were old and tattered, the dark green thread coming loose in places, and the fingertips had been cut away to reveal his rough, yet still noticeably young, fingers. The skin wasn’t as pale as I had imagined it to be, and instead was surprisingly dark, like the skin of a man who had spend many hours out in the sunlight. His nails were short, and as I looked, I noticed a trace of dried blood, encrusted on the skin around them. 

Struck between horror and disgust, I turned away. “Sure.” 

“I mean it, George,” he responded with earnest, leaning in ever closer and still trying to catch my eye, “I’m not here to hurt you. You’re not a threat.”

“Oh,” I uttered a pitiful laugh, motioning to the bruises and the still-bloodied cuts which now decorated my face. “I wasn’t a threat to your mates either, but they still seemed to enjoy kicking my face in.”

Withdrawing back into his seat, the stranger smirked, turning his attention to a small metal case which he had retrieved from his jacket pocket. Flicking open the lid, he knocked a cigarette out onto his fingers, and I watched his hands all the while as he snapped the case closed and returned it to its keeping place. Sliding the cigarette between his lips, he began searching his pockets for his lighter, speaking to me from out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Well, they’re assholes.”

That was the first thing the stranger had said that I could believe, and for the first time that night, I managed to pick up my gaze and look across at him. My attackers had been thugs; three grown men with intent to kill, and yet when he had arrived, he had sent them slinking away like a gang of naughty school children. Looking at him now, I almost felt a glimmer of admiration. His face was young; his chiseled jaw showed only the faintest traces of stubble, and his long black hair was pushed back from his brow, tucked away behind his ears. His eyes were dark, and were encircled by shadows – not of age or exhaustion, but rather that he had seen too much. Yet there was a kindness there too, an empathy, and as I watched him search for his lighter, I was beginning to see something in him that I could trust. 

Feeling as if I had scrutinized him for long enough, I looked back down to my coffee, absentmindedly running my fingers around the rim of the cup.

“You’re their ringleader then?”

“Oh Christ no,” he retorted, drawing his cigarette lighter up to his face and striking a flame, curving his hand around it to keep it from flickering. “Just older, that’s all.”

“You’re joking,” I exclaimed, this time catching his eye. “The youngest of them was at least in his late thirties, surely! And you – you’re:-”

“I’m one hundred and seventeen,” he grinned, taking a long drag of his cigarette before sending a cloud of smoke billowing into the air between us. The rich smell of tobacco tickled my lungs, but I did not choke, and didn’t even cough; all I could do was stare, struck dumb by the stranger’s words. When the smoke dispersed and I could once again see the man who sat across from me, I saw that he was smiling, and with a look of merriment in his eyes, he threw back his head and said, “I’ve aged well, I know.”

What happened next was something I would never have imagined, something I had not done in many long months – I was laughing. Despite myself, and despite my bruised and bloodied face, I was laughing; laughing with a man I had met only hours before, in a dirty back alley behind a dingy café. A man I didn’t even know; didn’t even trust. A man who wasn’t even human.

“The perks of being a vampire?” I asked when my laughter had subsided, only realizing a moment later how loud my voice had become. Startled, I looked around, but the rattling of the coffee machine had proved louder than my words, and the waitress and her two customers seemed not to have heard me. 

Yet when I turned back to the man, no traces of laughter could be found in his face; the smile on his lips had twisted to a grimace, and as he gazed at me through the hazy trail of smoke that rose from the smoldering end of his cigarette, I immediately realized how careless my words had been. 

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, shaking my head as if it could clear away the mess I had gotten myself into. I had only known the man for a couple of hours, and the circumstances of our meeting had been more than a little unconventional. By all accounts, we were supposed to hate one another – him, a vampire, and me... a werewolf. Yet there I had been, talking as if he was my oldest friend... as if we were human. 

“It’s fine,” the man returned, pinching the stub of his cigarette to his lips to take one, final drag. He exhaled slowly this time, as if to savour it, but when the smoke had been expelled and the glowing remains of the cigarette were extinguished, the man’s face was once again calm. “It’s just been a long hundred years, and let me tell you, George – there are no perks to a life like this.”

Reclining back into my seat, I turned my attention to the window to my left, looking out onto the deserted street. In spite of the rain which slashed down against the glass, the bleary glow of headlights could just about be seen through the darkness, passing every now and again as a car swung by. But apart from the occasional driver, there was not a soul to be seen; those lucky enough to have shelter had retreated back inside their houses, but as for us - the flotsam and jetsam of the world - we sat alone, and with our sickly black coffee and the droning din of the radio, we waited for the morning to come. 

“If we’re comparing a life of misery and solitude, believe me – I win.” I murmured, the words leaving my mouth before my mind had time to draw them back. 

The man, who for the last two minutes had been idly playing with his old Zippo lighter, glanced up casually from what he was doing, watching me for a moment before he spoke. “You reckon?”

“Being beaten to death in an alleyway is not how I prefer to spend my evenings, you know,” I joked feebly, but the man across from me said nothing, so I continued. “For the past six months, I’d close up shop, take out the rubbish, and retreat back to my shitty little flat above that shitty café. You know, it’d take about half an hour to wash the chip grease from my hands? Even then they’d feel disgusting. The only good thing waiting for me was a can of lager and 'The Real Hustle' at nine, but even then I’d have to bump the volume up extra loud, just to drown out the moans coming from the next bedroom along!” 

The other man remained silent, watching me all the while. Yet there was a look in his eyes, something strange, that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But before I could read it, his gaze was withdrawn, his expression turning to one of vague amusement as he remarked, “Sounds pretty ordinary to me.” 

“Ordinary?” I hissed under my breath, leaning in across the table as he had done only minutes before. “No, no – ordinary is living a proper life, a life with a family, a house, a job. Ordinary is being with someone who won’t leave you, having tea with the neighbours and a takeaway on the sofa, with a kid, a TV license, a stable income! Ordinary,” I protested further, crooking my finger sharply, “is being human. Not a monster, not cursed – really, _completely_ human.”

There it was again, that strange look in his eyes. The expression seemed to change him somewhat - his face, which from the moment I’d met him had been nothing but dark features and sharp angles, grew softer, the creases of his brow smoothed and his eyes became rounder and more gentle. Then it struck me – this look was one of empathy, of understanding, and I suddenly realized why the man was looking at me in such a way. All these things that I was describing, the life I had dreamed of for so long... he wanted those things too. The fact that I was not alone in my longing filled me with relief, and I could not stop my mind from running wild as I imagined the stranger and I – two monsters – living that ordinary, happy, _human_ life. 

Bowing my head to hide my smile, I stared back down into my coffee, watching it slosh around the cup as I tilted it to and fro between my hands. “I don’t even know your name.”

With a smile, the man turned his attention back to his cigarette lighter, twisting it deftly between his fingers before flicking open the lid, and striking his thumb down against the metal trigger. At first there was only a spark, but a second later a flame had ignited, flickering at first before burning, tall and steady, against the man’s sheltering palm. It rose up to touch his skin, but it did not appear to burn him, and his eyes reflected its comforting glow as he looked across at me once more. 

“Mitchell.”


End file.
